


six feet apart, and then some

by honeyedrop



Series: make me thaw [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Slice of Life, covid is real in the hqverse, i did my best samu, samu is an idiot in love, truly a certified miya gene, waxing poetic about food and dining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedrop/pseuds/honeyedrop
Summary: The roads are clear on the way back to Osamu’s apartment. The springtime breeze that blows through the metropolis at night is cool against the skin peeking out from between his gloves and shirtsleeves. Asphalt roads stretch before him, long and wide. Sidewalks once teeming with patrons every night appear dull without the colorful array of streetwear breathing life into them. The city is a ghost of what it once was—a paler shade of the grey it’s always been. It’s alive, surviving, but it’s hollow.It’s the tail-end of May, right on the brink of summer, but it’s cold, cold, cold.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu
Series: make me thaw [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903228
Comments: 74
Kudos: 489
Collections: food fiction for the heart





	six feet apart, and then some

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keijistar (asdgf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asdgf/gifts).



> write the haikyuu quarantine arc you wish to see in the world.
> 
> read excerpts from the onigiri miya chapter in the latest light novel and went deep into my seelings (samu feelings). hope you enjoy!
> 
> a belated gift to my partner in clown. please accept this as reparations for the other fic & for spoiling aot s3 part 2.
> 
> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6TYWdzEUFLmqX3v1F0U73V?si=2Cw6rh-iTFmxvrXn4pcMeQ) (don't shuffle)

_Ring doorbell and leave package immediately. - Akaashi Keiji_

Osamu reads the sign taped to the door in front of him, mumbling the words under his breath. His eyes trace the strokes of the characters. Every single one is linked to the last, and he presumes the sign was written in haste. Despite the frantic scrawl, however, the characters are evenly spaced and aligned. He is reminded of all the practice worksheets from his earlier years in school: one box demanded an iteration of the new kanji he was learning, and another, and another, and another. Halfway through the drills, he’d get tired, and the exhaustion would bleed into inconsistency and messed-up stroke orders. 

Akaashi Keiji seems like the type of person who enjoyed those practice sheets. Not that he would know, personally. The sign just gave him the impression.

He rings the doorbell, pressing his knuckle to the button on the wall. It’s still taking him a while to get used to wearing latex gloves this often. The skin on his hands has been peeled dry countless times after turning close to thousands of onigiri in them in practiced motions. The extra layer feels foreign. Bothersome, even.

The heat of his breath fans against his mask. He sets the paper bag down in front of the door, hands lingering on the sides of the package. When he rises back to full height, he crosses his arms over his chest. Two pieces, umeboshi. Two pieces, tarako. One piece, tamago, and another piece of spicy cucumber; _The spicy cucumber is free of charge,_ he recalled typing on his phone through the restaurant’s official account, _for your continuous support for Onigiri Miya._ He followed up with a smiley face. Until now he ponders if it was unprofessional.

Osamu sighs, but cuts himself off immediately. His breath smells like _shit_. Or maybe it’s the mask? He can’t be bothered to tell the difference.

The hallway before him is a path he has grown familiar with. Akaashi Keiji’s apartment—Unit 524; the numbers are embedded in his memory—is at its very end, overlooking the Chiyoda skyline. High-rise buildings pierce the yolk of the sun, and its light spills over the roads as a parting gift then dips into the horizon. _Otsukare. See you in the morning_.

Footsteps sound from the other side of the door, and Osamu takes them as his cue to turn around and head for the elevator. His pace is brisk, hands moistening inside the gloves, pulse ringing in his ears. As he’s turning the corner, sweat trickles down the nape of his neck.

The faint creak of a door opening catches his attention. A lump forms in his throat. No matter how many times he swallows, his mouth runs dry. 

_Ding!_ The elevator doors slide open, waiting. Osamu considers his options: He can step in and go back to the lobby, reclaim his ID, hop onto his Onigiri Miya delivery scooter and ride back to his apartment in Shinjuku. 

In the periphery, he spots a figure clad in a white knit sweater, with sleeves that are several centimeters too long for his arms. Grey sweatpants and a pair of Adidas slides round out the look. It’s unmistakably Fukurodani’s former setter and captain, albeit with longer hair pulled back by a headband and cheeks the slightest bit fuller. 

The elevator doors begin to close. Osamu considers his options again. He could butt in, stuff his hand or foot through the gap, and get in.

Or, he could stick around for just a little more, standing from a distance, watching Akaashi Keiji pick up the paper bag bearing his restaurant’s logo from the floor. 

He’s done this thrice. He should know himself well enough by now. It’s always going to be the latter.

Self-quarantine isn’t always a good look on people. Osamu thinks back to the many video calls he’s had with his former Inarizaki teammates; Atsumu and Akagi had taken on the challenge of growing a beard, per Aran’s teasing. Suna, attempting to give himself a haircut at home (“It’s a trim,” he insisted, “it won’t be that hard.”), ended up chopping off a whole inch from his fringe, and the disaster was irreparable with his limited expertise. He resorted to sporting a buzz cut to remedy his mistakes. Osamu himself has been agonizing over the length of his hair—it gets in his eyes sometimes while he’s cooking, and Tsumu, that shithead, stole all the headbands and hair ties in his drawers the last time he visited.

It’s not fair, then, that Akaashi Keiji looks put together as ever, even in oversized loungewear. His fingers are careful when they peel the sticker sealing off the paper bag. He sticks his nose in, shoulders rising as he takes in the smell of the onigiri. The corners of his lips turn upward.

Osamu’s face feels hot underneath his mask. 

The door swings shut. Osamu cranes his neck. Just like that, Akaashi Keiji has retreated back into his apartment. 

“Samu, ya dumb fuck,” he grumbles, shoulders hunching forward. He jabs at the elevator buttons again. He’s stupid. Stupid, so stupid, in his Onigiri Miya uniform and standing there like an absolute _idiot_ wasting his time to get a peak of his customer reacting to his food. 

Akaashi seemed pleased enough. Osamu could never tell for sure. He just hopes so.

 _Customer, huh,_ a voice inside his head sneers. It sounds eerily a lot like Atsumu.

“Shaddap.”

_Ding!_

Osamu jumps at the sound. The elevator doors part, and his feet drag themselves inside. The descent to the lobby is quiet for the most part, if only he could tune out the way his heartbeat hammers against his chest like it’s knocking against the door to Unit 524 and refusing to leave until it gets one last glimpse of ‘Kaashi-kun’s knit sweater. 

Why’s it so big on him anyway? He’s a respectable 183 centimeters. He had no business looking so—

 _You have arrived at the lobby,_ the programmed elevator lady chimes in, _you have arrived at the lobby._

Unfortunately so.

  
  


The roads are clear on the way back to Osamu’s apartment. The springtime breeze that blows through the metropolis at night is cool against the skin peeking out from between his gloves and shirtsleeves. Asphalt roads stretch before him, long and wide. Sidewalks once teeming with patrons every night appear dull without the colorful array of streetwear breathing life into them. The city is a ghost of what it once was—a paler shade of the grey it’s always been. It’s alive, surviving, but it’s hollow. 

It’s the tail-end of May, right on the brink of summer, but it’s cold, cold, _cold._

* * *

  
  


Atsumu suggested he make an Instagram account for the restaurant back in the summer of 2019.

“Ya get me to model for ya, I’ll share the posts on my profile, ya get a hundred thousand followers overnight,” he pitched during lunch, grains of rice scattered across his mouth. Couldn’t even be bothered to use a table napkin.

“Yer bein’ gross.” Osamu plucked a napkin from the dispenser on his side of the counter and shoved it at his brother’s face. He earned himself a roll of the eyes, followed by a low _scrub._ “And I don’t know if people would bother followin’. What am I gonna post? Just pictures of the food? Ya think I got time to make an account while workin’ on the Tokyo branch opening?”

“That’s the _point,_ Samu!” Atsumu’s grip on his piece of minced tuna and spring onion onigiri tightened, and the veins running through his temples were almost going to pop out. For someone who didn’t usually care about what people thought about him, he sure was being riled up about social media branding. “Give the Tokyo branch hype! You can make tutorials or something, I dunno. Show yer face while yer makin’ the onigiri and you’ll get more of my fans to follow ya.”

“If ya don’t stop talkin’ I’m stealin’ that last piece on yer plate.” 

“Like you won’t just make me another one. Hey. Hey Samu. Samu, what the hell—”

“Told ya.”

A grin found its way to Osamu’s face, but it wasn’t long before it faded into a scowl. 

The tuna was _slightly_ overcooked in that last one. The sharpness from the spring onion overpowered the savory flavors from the fish and nori. By the last bite, he was certain the tuna-to-onion ratio was off. He’d have to look into who rolled up that last piece. At least he’d stolen it right from under Atsumu’s nose before that bastard could complain about “compromised quality” or whatever.

“Oi,” Atsumu waved a hand in front of him. “Are ya there? Yer making that face again.”

“‘That face’ is just _yer_ face, asshole,” he scoffed, striding over to the faucet to wash his hands.

“‘S not,” his brother protested. “I don’t have a judging-everything-I-frickin’-put-in-my-mouth face. That’s a Samu thing. A really ugly Samu thing.”

Osamu momentarily paused from lathering soap in his hands. He didn’t want to admit that his brother was right—about that “face” he made nor the Instagram marketing strategy. He knew he had to concede to one of the points, though. Tsumu was out of food and he would keep running his mouth until his brain came up with another spur-of-the-moment idea that tickled his fancy.

“Maybe I’ll give that Instagram thing a try,” he thought to himself aloud. “If this flops, I’m blamin’ ya.”

“And _when_ it gains a _massive following,_ ” Atsumu straightened his back, chest puffed out, his clothing-brand-endorsement smirk looking absolutely _ridiculous_ on him, “you also have _me_ to thank.”

  
  


Over the course of the following week, Osamu commissioned a graphic designer—one of the old managers from Karasuno, Yachi Hitoka, the blonde with clips in her hair—to work on a couple of designs for Onigiri Miya’s first few posts. His employees were more than eager to offer up suggestions for the content, ranging from how-to videos to more niche captions in their posts to appeal to younger customers. After long conversation threads and back-and-forth revisions from his staff for their first post’s caption, he eventually settled for something plain and simple. 

This was an onigiri restaurant. All he needed to make a delicious meal were rice, nori, and ingredients accessible to anyone. No embellishments, no exotic spices sourced from the farthest corners of the globe, no gimmicks that emerged from the deepest recesses of the Internet. It was just him, his love for making food, and the love people shared for the Japanese classic.

_Onigiri Miya is now on Instagram! Follow for more of your favorite onigiri, made fresh and #MadeByMiya!_

Osamu was the account’s first follower. Atsumu was second; although, before he shared the account, he sent a one-minute long audio recording of him laughing at the #MadeByMiya hashtag. Aran and Kita-san also followed afterwards, then the rest of his old teammates started sharing the account with their colleagues. 

Big names began flooding his notifications. Users _kageyamatobio, HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL, wakatoshi_1994, bokutobeam920, sakusa_kiyoomi,_ and _ninjashoyo_ added Onigiri Miya’s first post to their Instagram Stories, even using the hashtag Atsumu ridiculed moments prior. Old opponents he’d crossed paths with at numerous volleyball tournaments congratulated him on the account as well, setting aside petty high school rivalries for well-wishes and follows. Soon, he had amassed thousands of new followers, regular customers and bandwagon V.League fans alike. 

After the initial burst of new followers and likes, the notifications came at a pace Osamu and his phone could catch up with. He had sifted through his own personal messages to find greetings from his parents’ friends. Baa-chan made an account for the purpose of following him, his brother, and the restaurant, and he coached her through the process of sharing his posts to her friends. 

Another notification from the Onigiri Miya account came when he was getting ready to go to bed.

_akaashi_keiji started following you._

Osamu’s phone slipped out of his hand and fell flat on his face.

Akaashi Keiji. Fukurodani setter. _Editor for @shonenvai. Occasional poet & frequent cafe hopper, _read his profile. 

He would be cutting it too close if he were to call Akaashi a friend. If he had to describe him as someone in relation to him, Osamu would use the word “familiar.” Their paths crossed along the hallways of stadiums and souvenir booths; once, in their final year in high school, they even played on opposite sides of the net on the orange court. Beyond old footage of Fukurodani’s past games and the pleasantries they exchanged whenever Osamu set up a booth for his brother’s matches, however, the man was mostly a mystery to him—one he had been picking at for clues over the last few months. 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Why were his hands so jittery? He could handle piping hot rice just fine. This was just his phone. It was just a screen. This was just Akaashi Keiji following user _onigirimiya_. 

A like on the first post. A comment: _The best! #MadeByMiya._ A red bubble where his direct messages could be found. 

This was just Akaashi Keiji sending Osamu a message on his personal account.

**Akaashi Keiji**

akaashi_keiji 

Congratulations on 10k followers on the Onigiri Miya account.

That was fast! 

  
  


He knew in that moment that he should say his thanks. It was rude not to. 

This was just Osamu expressing his gratitude.

  
  


**Miya Osamu**

samumiya

thanks! :)

  
  


Four, five minutes passed, and Osamu’s gaze remained fixed on his screen. It was a quarter to midnight. His alarm was due to ring in five hours. With how well the Instagram post performed that night, he was expecting a spike in the number of customers the following day. Prepping ingredients demanded his full attention, and he had no room to make mistakes when he had so dauntlessly added #MadeByMiya to the restaurant’s bio like some sort of hallmark for the quality of his food. 

Ten minutes to midnight. His stubborn eyes refused to close until he got a reply.

**Miya Osamu**

samumiya

thanks! :)

_Seen_

  
  


“Y’know what.” 

He disconnected from his apartment WiFi and placed his phone face down on his bedside table. His hand reached out to turn his lamp off. A couple more minutes passed of him tossing and turning in bed until his eyelids gave out under the weight of oncoming slumber.

It was just Akaashi Keiji congratulating him. He was just saying his thanks. One follower in a sea of ten thousand, and a single message in a flood of fifty. 

Osamu went to dig for clues and came back empty handed. 

* * *

On the twins’ 24th birthday, Onigiri Miya opened its first branch in Tokyo—which was also Osamu’s first venture outside of the original restaurant based in Hyogo. It took him ten arduous months of contract negotiations, staff interviews, lease payments, and interior furnishing to open up a quaint little shop tucked a couple of blocks away from Shinjuku Central Park. He still couldn’t fathom how he scored a deal with such a hotspot both for the locals and tourists in the area, but he wasn’t about to question the machinations of the universe if it meant that they would work in his favor.

He rented an apartment fifteen minutes away by his scooter. A full week was spent on gathering up all of his things from their childhood home, sorting possessions into necessities and donations (The old ‘OSAMU’ sweaters and high school textbooks could go. Vabo-chan was going up to Tokyo with him). 

Management of the Hyogo branch was left to the capable hands of his cousin Ayami and the rest of his staff. Baa-chan had wanted him to stay behind in Amagasaki and assemble a team for the Shinjuku store, and Osamu almost found himself convinced. But the earliest stages of opening a restaurant were the most delicate. Even after operations began, he had to ensure that apart from breaking even, the profit would be sustained at least one year after its opening. Baa-chan’s waterworks early in the morning before boarding the _shinkansen_ was an image he had to wrestle with throughout the three-hour ride to Tokyo.

The grand opening was no elaborate celebration; he decided to invite his old teammates and friends from culinary school, and Atsumu brought Bokuto and Sakusa along. The venue ended up looking cramped in the pictures, with all of them towering over the tables and chairs inside the restaurant. 

Aran and Kita-san brought separate cakes for the twins. Birthday candles were blown out, eyes closed and wishes cast. Atsumu’s eyes were sealed shut for much longer than Osamu’s, perhaps as he listed a number of impossible wishes from the gods. It was pointless, Osamu thought. Whatever it was Atsumu demanded for, he needed no spirit nor deity; he would find a way to pave a path for him to go down on. 

But Osamu didn’t tell him that. Instead, he smacked his twin brother on the back of his blond head and told him he was stalling the rest of the dinner. 

Together with the kitchen staff, Osamu prepared several batches of onigiri. Other guests brought bottles of sake and packs of beer as gifts, which they eventually consumed as the night grew older; the pro-players held off on the alcohol for the upcoming season. 

“Ya gotta post this to the official account, man,” Aran suggested, waving his onigiri in the air to drive his point across. Osamu clutched his chest at the sight.

“Ooh, ooh, I wanna be on the Onigiri Miya account!” Bokuto held up his empty plate, not a single grain of rice left on the ceramic. “Can I, Samu-Samu?”

“Me too!” Atsumu piped up. “An’ I want seconds, Samu!”

“You have one onigiri left,” Sakusa deadpanned. He had made it halfway through the ochazuke. 

“I’ll take a picture of you twins,” Kita-san volunteered, offering his waiting hand towards Osamu. “You can stand by the counter or out front. ” 

The blush creeping up his tanned skin told Osamu that their former captain was nearing the limits of his alcohol tolerance. If they wanted to get a good picture for their birthday, it was now or never, lest they would settle for a burst of twenty blurry photographs.

Said photograph, along with nine others of their guests, made it to the Onigiri Miya account. Birthday greetings and congratulatory comments came in the notifications tab. Akagi and Omimi took a generous number of pictures and videos for their Instagram Stories, pinning down the new location with a sticker. Bokuto started a livestream featuring an eating contest between Atsumu and Ginjima, from which the latter emerged the victor. Suna caught the entire thing on camera—plus Atsmu’s wailing in defeat—and sent it to the group chat. Aran was clapping Atsumu in the back to stop him from choking on his food.

Osamu watched the festivities unfold from the counter, fingers molding handfuls of rice into triangles at a rehearsed speed. Cheeks ballooned with every bite of food. Hands scrambled for seconds, thirds, fourths. The air painted in drunken hiccups and stories of days gone by. Outside the four walls of the restaurant, the world continued to turn on its axis, and passersby fell into the kinetic whirlwinds of Tokyo nightlife. 

The place he once called home in Amagasaki stood 500 kilometers away. Between Tokyo and Hyogo were five prefectures that took six hours to cross. The street corners he’d turned, the sweets shop two blocks away from his childhood house, the winters their family spent at Arima Onsen in Kobe—all were far, far away, in the distant nooks of his memories; in platforms he’d departed from, boxes he piled up in the basement, in the vacant room where he and Atsumu dreamed of things much, much bigger than the world could accommodate.

Dreams, he realized as his guests bade their farewells, did not have to span the ends of the earth. They were, most of the time, as small as his quaint restaurant—a shred of home in a place unknown to him. A piece of onigiri, cradled by ten fingers. Plates cleaned by the end of a meal, to the point of seeing his reflection in the kitchenware. Full stomachs, full faces, full hearts. Memories erased by time moving forward, but ingrained deep in the marrows of his bones. 

Osamu did not have to wish for much on his birthday.

  
  


**Miya Osamu**

samumiya

thanks! :)

_Seen_

Yesterday, 11:59 PM

**Akaashi Keiji**

akaashi_keiji 

Congratulations on the Tokyo Branch.

And happy birthday! :)

**Miya Osamu**

samumiya

thanks! i’ll see you around?

_Seen_

Not much. Maybe he had just one, though. 

  
  


**Akaashi Keiji**

akaashi_keiji 

If my schedule lets me, haha.

_Seen_

* * *

Weeknights had Osamu buried in the farthest corners of his kitchen.

The first big wave of customers arrived usually at 5 PM. Students clad in uniforms and activewear came in groups of at least four people. Osamu had begun recognizing some faces, much to his relief and delight. 

Regulars. The branch had started gaining _regulars._

He never meant to pry, but their voices always filled up all the empty spaces of the restaurant: Yamahira-sensei wouldn’t go easy on them during English class. Mayu-chan rejected Kaito-kun for the third time. One of the freshmen on the baseball team was both a star on the rise and a threat to the juniors. 

High school was more of a rinse-and-repeat kind of routine for Osamu, with volleyball at the center of his priorities. If he took out the highs and glory of high school athletics, his late teens were mundane at best and completely uninteresting at worst. To hear students come in everyday, bursting at the seams with anecdotes from school, sparked a warmth in his chest that he could only hope the food he served would nurse in them. 

The second wave came at 6:30. That crowd was significantly older than the last. Salarymen shrugged out of their coats and hung them on their chairs. Ties were loosened over meals and glasses of Rokko Beer. Staff were overwhelmed with the sheer amount of orders they had to serve and the constant reminders they’d make about Onigiri Miya’s no-smoking rule. 

The customers’ voices had all the bite and gripe of a typical working thirty-something in the metropolis. Instead of the thrill of romantic confessions, Osamu was subjected to the terrifying ordeal of thinking about marriage. Student loans were a ghost of the past that haunted him and his patrons. Divorce, utility bills, a dwindling affair with the vice president’s personal assistant—the stuff nighttime dramas were made of. A lot less exciting compared to the youth of his previous customers, but hitting much closer to home. 

Then, there came the third wave. It was a single customer, always coming in at 8:30 on the dot every Tuesday and Thursday. He would sit by the counter, on the chair farthest from the entrance. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses were heavy-lidded eyes, sore from all the hours in the night he’d spent awake. Next to his plate of onigiri, he’d place his tablet on a portable stand and scroll through the screen for hours until a waiter (Haru-chan, usually) would remind him that closing time loomed just around the corner. He would excuse himself, pay his bill by the entrance, and thank the staff for the meal.

Rush hour had long passed, but the lone customer had Osamu’s fingers trembling with the same adrenaline that came with churning multiple orders out all at once. At exactly 8:15, he would swap out with Eiji-kun, and the apprentice would take Osamu’s place at the counter front, preparing onigiri in front of spectating customers. 

Birthday wishes came true. He had to find out the hard way when Akaashi Keiji became a Shinjuku branch regular. 

The first two times Akaashi visited, Osamu ducked into the backroom and convinced himself he needed to go over his inventory. Up until the eighth time, he exiled himself to dishwashing duty. 

Akaashi’s presence became increasingly difficult to ignore when Osamu would go through his Instagram notifications. See, he’d added a Highlight to the Onigiri Miya profile for customers’ posts. Avoiding Akaashi Keiji in the physical sense was easier than muting @ _akaashi_keiji_ online. The man uploaded pictures to his Stories, pinned his location down each time he came, and tagged the restaurant’s profile when he went the extra mile to actually make a post. 

On Akaashi’s ninth visit, Osamu had the misfortune of getting caught up in a tourist family’s request to have his photo taken. He wasn’t particularly good at English—he knew enough to get by on a trip, and more than Atsumu did—and navigating the conversation posed a greater challenge than he’d anticipated. The mother made jokes about him being a celebrity and called him something else in a language he couldn’t understand: _po-geh? Po-gi?_

By the time the family thanked him for the food and service, the clock read 8:29. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He was still wiping down a table when the chimes that hung above the entrance resounded across the room. 

“ _Irasshaimase,_ ” said Haru-chan, manning the cash register. Waiters and kitchen staff followed suit. 

Osamu couldn’t trust himself with bringing back the used plates over to the dishwashers. 

“I can take these, Osamu-san.” Eiji-kun came to collect the dishes from Osamu’s arms, tone so utterly polite Osamu couldn’t refuse the favor.

“Thanks, Eiji-kun,” he replied, hoping the boy didn’t hear the way Osamu’s voice got twisted up on its way out of his throat. 

He promptly returned to his station at the counter, washing up his hands twice as long as he usually would. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Akaashi walking to his seat: His hair was a bit unkempt, stray strands sticking out at the top of his head. Glasses were askew. Face was noticeably thinner than Osamu had remembered it to be. His backpack had only been zipped halfway, and if Osamu craned his neck hard enough, he could spot a tablet and a few envelopes. A few more steps and the laces in Akaashi’s shoes would come undone.

This was quite the contrast to Osamu’s image of him.

Akaashi finally took a seat at his usual spot, placing his backpack on the floor. He heaved a sigh, head hung low. His hands wouldn’t stop combing through his hair.

Osamu went to prepare a cup of house tea.

He couldn’t fuck it up. It was clear to anybody watching that Akaashi was having an off day. Osamu wasn’t going to spill this tea. He was going to pour Akaashi a nice, full cup, hand it to him as discreetly as he could and ask him if he wanted his usual order of three umeboshi onigiri. 

Somehow, Osamu’s hand had set the cup down without a fuss. No piping hot tea came pouring onto his hand. What came after, however, was probably much worse than having to clean up spilled drinks.

“Ya don’t look so good,” he’d said. 

Stupid. God, he was stupid. He had worms for fucking brains. How in hell did the filter between his mind and mouth turn _Will you be having your usual order?_ to straight up saying Akaashi looked _terrible?_

They were barely even friends, and ‘acquaintances’ seemed a bit cold. They were somewhere in the middle (one-sided estimate). He had no business making jabs at a manga editor who had clearly ventured into the fires of hell and made it back before coming into his restaurant.

“Hm?”

Osamu’s carelessness had snapped the editor out of his trance. Akaashi lifted his head. Those sore, tired eyes met Osamu’s, and he felt like punching himself in the face. And the stomach. And the face again.

“Oh, Myaa-sam, it’s you,” Akaashi said, and nothing more afterwards. His eyes widened for a moment before they went back to how they looked—a troubling cross between falling asleep and welling up with tears. 

_Myaa-sam._ The nickname tugged at something in Osamu’s chest. He remembered clearing his throat while sifting through all the words in his vocabulary to keep the conversation going.

“Yer havin’ the usual?” Good. That was good. A comeback from the royal fuck-up from earlier. 

Akaashi nodded. “You know,” he added, “I’m surprised you know my order.”

Osamu had dug himself a grave with that one; he had practically handed Akaashi a shovel to pile up the dirt on top of his body. 

“Ah, well.” He focused on rubbing salt into his palms before scooping out a hefty amount of rice from the pot. “Ya get the same thing every time I see ya at a game, so I figured yer the type o’ guy that likes consistency.” 

To that, Akaashi smiled, yet those eyes looked taken by something Osamu couldn’t quite reach. 

“I guess you’re right.” Akaashi lifted the cup of tea to his lips and took a sip.

Osamu put the rice in the wooden onigiri mold, and they soon took shape. His fingers pressed into the center of each ball of rice, creating a well for the umeboshi he placed. Another heap of rice was pressed on top of the umeboshi. 

“Sorry I only got to see ya now, by the way,” he said, removing the mold and reworking the rice in his hands. “I know you were lookin’ forward to the Tokyo branch. Got busy with stuff behind the scenes.”

And by _stuff behind the scenes,_ Osamu meant standing idly by the freezer and nearly breaking his skin with the pile of dishes that awaited him in the sink. 

“Oh, I understand.” Akaashi waved a hand in the air. Osamu saw the uneven curves of his fingernails. “The opening looked festive,” he added, corners of his lips turned upward. 

“That’s one way to put it.” Osamu’s throat had run dry, but he forced himself to laugh. _Ha, ha._ That was natural enough. “If ya think yer twin brother choking during an eating contest on his _birthday_ is somethin’ to celebrate.”

“Heh.” The sound somewhat resembled a chuckle. In that state, it was probably the most Akaashi could muster. 

Wrapping the nori around the rice was Osamu’s favorite step across all of his onigiri recipes. The rice, of course, was the heart and soul of the dish, yet he likened the process to gift wrapping. There came the finality of tucking the corners of the nori sheets into the spaces between them and the rice. He topped off the pieces with a sprinkle of sesame seeds—the bow on top. The rice, planted and harvested with the labor of farmers breaking their backs under the prickling heat of the sun. The filling, prepared in the early hours of the morning by him and his staff, with only the freshest ingredients. One onigiri, shaped like the mountains he traversed to spend the rest of his life doing what he truly wanted, held the sweat and tears of hundreds, thousands of people that woke up at the break of dawn to put food on tables across the country. 

He did not know of anything more selfless than that. And so he wrapped up the rice with the utmost care, fingers quivering and delicate as he lined the onigiri up on the plate. 

Osamu set the plate down in front of Akaashi. For the first time since he walked into the restaurant, Akaashi’s eyes had rid themselves of their dark, distant daze. They were alight with the gleam of the first beam of sun over vast fields and mighty hills. Then, when he smiled, the sun sat on the hilltop.

_“Itadakimasu.”_

_Thank you for your work. Thank you for your sacrifice._

The first bite was the most nerve-wracking. The march of a thousand-army fleet trampled all over Osamu’s chest. Akaashi sunk his teeth into the onigiri. American jazz and tipsy crowds dissipated into silence, and all that reverberated within the walls of the shop were the beat of his heart.

“Delicious,” Akaashi remarked after swallowing his first mouthful, “as always.”

The army surrendered. Saxophone trills wormed their way back into Osamu’s ears. Not so far from his station, a young couple was feeding each other bites of their onigiri. 

Osamu’s shoulders relaxed. He hadn't even known they’d been so tense in the first place.

“Tasty enough to putcha in a better mood, I hope.” That teetered on the line between ‘friendly’ and ‘flirtatious.’ For a fraction of a second, he’d wondered if Akaashi was in a terrible enough mood not to read between the lines. Osamu figured he’d had enough of that at his job.

Akaashi only hummed. “Not quite there yet. But I’ll have a few more bites and I’ll see.”

True to his words, Akaashi remained quiet for the most part. Onigiri in one hand, slow chews, a sip of tea after finishing one piece. 

Some people eat in under fifteen minutes. Fast eaters frequented the restaurant at midday. If they weren’t asking for takeout, their orders would go from plate to stomach in the blink of an eye. Not all of them were busy. A handful of them savored the flavors they tasted upon the first bite; they simply couldn’t get enough of it. But most of them ate meals as detours for more important roads to travel later in the day—a class, the next train leaving Shinjuku Station, a meeting they dreaded. 

Osamu himself ended up snacking more on bits and pieces of ingredients during peak hours in the day, but he never ate just for the sake of it. You had to sit down and cast away all other distractions to enjoy a proper meal. He ate to taste. He ate to nourish.

Akaashi appeared to do the same that night, eating without his tablet by his plate. Osamu wiped the surface of his work station clean, watching the editor’s eyes flutter shut as he took his last bite. 

The body was a temple, and food, the gifts to the gods that inhibited flesh and bone. To eat was to worship, to pay respects, to thank the spirits for the grace of movement, of life. Such a ceremony took place with the way Akaashi gripped his cup of tea, firm but cautious; in how he had clasped his hands together, head lowered and reverent as he offered a prayer: _Thank you for the meal._

“So.” Osamu had returned to his spot directly across from Akaashi, shoulders squared once more. The towel he’d used was balled up in his fist, nails digging into the cotton. “Ya feelin’ alright now?”

Akaashi pursed his lips in thought, oblivious to the grain of rice on his cheek. 

Osamu wasn’t going to point it out just yet.

“Significantly better than I did when I got here, yes.” Akaashi took another sip of his tea. He moved to reach for the napkin next to his plate, which was already dotted with liquid stains and rice. 

Osamu, over the glass divider separating his station from his customers, handed him a tissue dispenser from his side of the counter.

“Thank you.” Akaashi dabbed at his mouth and folded the napkin thrice. Uneven corners were smoothed down by his fingers. “For the tissue. And the meal.”

“‘S’alright,” Osamu assured him, calloused palms up in the air. “If it’s the one good thing ya have today, I’m happy to make some more.” Said palms were already ghosting over the rice cooker.

In response, Akaashi shook his head. “No, no, it’s alright. I’m afraid three pieces is all I can afford for now.”

“Didn’t say I was gonna charge for it.” 

And before his brain could even catch up to the words he’d been spewing, Osamu had wrapped up two pieces of tamago onigiri and placed them in a box. 

Muscle memory, combined with that _thing_ that twisted inside his chest, was _such_ an asshole sometimes.

Akaashi looked taken aback, blinking back and forth at the box in front of him and Osamu. 

“Tamago,” Osamu said, gesturing to the box. “If yer stayin’ up late, the protein keeps ya full.”

The crease between Akaashi’s eyebrows disappeared as his hands closed around the box. His thumbs ran over the seams. Osamu gripped the towel tighter until the color in his knuckles disappeared.

“Thank you.”

The grain of rice on his cheek. A dimple under his lower lip that Osamu didn’t notice before. The color of his eyes under the pendant lights turned into a different shade of blue; the longer Osamu held Akaashi’s gaze, the deeper he nosedived into the oceans between long, fluttering lashes. 

“Don’t mention it,” Osamu said. His towel was finally freed from the clutch of his hand.

“And sorry,” Akaashi added, resting his chin on his palm.

“What for?”

“For being so down in the dumps in front of you.” There he went again, with the lopsided smile that never reached his eyes.

That was one stubborn grain of rice.

“Ya don’t hafta be sorry ‘bout that,” Osamu reminded him, and he meant what he said. But the tug in his chest burned into an ache, and from the ashes emerged a hunger to know _why_. To reach out and pluck the rice grain from Akaashi’s face. To flip the sign on the restaurant door and bar the rest of the world out, where Akaashi could lay his troubles to rest. The jagged nails, the circles around his eyes, and the slump of his shoulders fed into the impulse. “I have off days too. I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll bounce back.” 

Akaashi wrapped his fingers around his cup of tea. The chimes by the door sounded; another group of customers had retired for the night.

He tinkered with the cup a bit, whirling it around in his hands. “Let’s just say there were trains I missed, and they were meant to take me places… places I’ve dreamed of for a while. I thought I would make it.”

There was a language Akaashi spoke that Osamu hadn’t fully understood, not yet. Metaphors. Lines that could pass for poetry collections and excerpts from the textbooks he loathed in school. Complicated words with even more vexing kanji. None of the dictionaries he’d used ever told him that a man could string such words with a natural ease. 

He wanted to hear more of it. Maybe even learn it himself. In the same way Osamu bared his heart in the food he made, perhaps this was Akaashi unraveling the world that took the shape of his mind.

“But… you didn’t get there,” Osamu guessed, words punctuated by a question he was still piecing together. “You were late to the train. Made it to the platform, but the doors closed on ya.”

Akaashi tilted his head at him, and for a moment, Osamu feared he’d been intrusive. But the oceans in Akaashi’s eyes were serene, the pull of the tides waning into a quiet ripple of waves. 

“The doors closed on me,” he repeated. The words underline the trumpets in the Chet Baker song playing through the in-house speakers. “They did. And now I don’t know how to get to where I want to go anymore.” 

“Well I hope I’m not oversimplifying the whole thing,” Osamu said, “but those trains don’t just run for a day. They run on a schedule, don’t they?” _For how much longer can I milk this?_ “You can wait for them and go back.”

“If…” The sentence trailed off into the space between them. Breath fogged up the glass barrier on the countertop. One last resounding riff from Baker’s trumpets, clatter from the plates balanced on trained wrists. “If it doesn’t?”

“Wait for another train.” The clock struck 10:58. “Switch lines.”

Somewhere between all the talk about hypothetical subway routes and almost finished tea, the rest of Osamu’s patrons had slipped out of the restaurant. He spotted Eiji-kun tiptoe over to the backroom with one of the unsold tarako onigiri in one hand and spare keys to the back entrance in the other. 

Akaashi was the visitor then, but Osamu felt as though he’d overstayed _his_ welcome at his own establishment.

“Oh, I think I should get going now.” Akaashi collected the box of onigiri and fished out his wallet from his bag. “Completely slipped my mind. I’d be told off around this time by one of your waiters.”

“Yeah, Haru-chan’s at the cash register today.” So he’d come to know Haru-chan, then. Maybe it was a mistake on Osamu’s part to be handing her name out so casually. 

“Sorry I got you involved in my nonsense.” 

“I’m not accepting any more apologies.” The fatigue from that day’s service started building up into an ache throughout his muscles. Holding Akaashi’s gaze for more than ten seconds at a time drained the strength out of his legs. Osamu settled for the rice on his cheek. “Ya looked like ya needed someone to talk to, anyway. And I’m probably not the best guy out there to hand out life-changin’ advice or be a shoulder to mope on, but I can listen. I had to put up with a big-mouthed jerk-wad for eighteen years of my life.”

“I hope you’ll accept my gratitude, then. Especially for this,” he held up his box of tamago onigiri high enough to meet Osamu’s line of sight.

“Any time.” Osamu tipped his hat off. Was it always so humid at the countertop?

Akaashi finally seemed to realize that a grain of rice had been stuck to his face the whole time. He unravelled the napkin he’d folded earlier and tucked the rice between its crevices. 

One last bow, a poor attempt at a wave, an _otsukare sama_ sputtered out in a voice so soft Osamu almost tricked himself into believing he’d never heard it—all in the drop of his hat to the floor. Crisp bills and minted coins were handed off at the storefront. The chimes danced to the rhythm of the door swing. 

The marching fleet took up arms once more.

  
  


Liked by **miyatsumu** and **22 others**

 **akaashi_keiji** Late night. @onigirimiya

 **ninjashoyo** You shouldn’t be awake when I am, Akaashi-san >:o

 **bokutobeam920** AKAASHI IT’S MORNING NOW! WHY ARE YOU STILL AWAKE?

 **kageyamatobio** Onigiri Miya’s tamago flavor is very good.

 **yukieppe** Just two?~ ^.^

November 6, 2019

  
  


Osamu didn’t hide in the backroom the following Thursday night, and for many more weeknights that followed.

* * *

All Osamu wants to do is collapse into the waiting couch in his apartment, but the better part of him reminds him of the necessary rituals he’d adopted once news of the coronavirus first broke out across the country. The gloves come off at the _genkan_ and get thrown into a trash bin he’d placed there at the beginning of April, followed by his mask. A plastic bag gets filled with his clothes and shoes for the day, and he goes through the painstaking process of washing used clothes in just his underwear. His helmet also gets a thorough scrub towards the end of his showers. 

He puts on a fresh pair of sweatpants and the Oliver Barnes souvenir jersey he’d gotten to spite Atsumu last season. _Now_ he unravels on his couch, legs spread so far apart his ears start remembering the times his mother scolded him for not minding his manners at home.

Today wasn’t so bad. Osamu counts his blessings, the same way Baa-chan would write them down on table napkins when she brought him and his twin brother out to dinner after school:

  1. One of the riders he hired reported successful deliveries in the Shinjuku ward for all 55 orders. He’ll go over the numbers in the other wards later. Spreadsheets are taxing to deal with on an empty stomach.
  2. Earlier this morning, Ayami told him that one of the hospitals in Amagasaki contacted them for catering services. Compensation and hazard pay would be provided by the hospital. Osamu fears the risk would be greater than the reward, but he leaves the decision to Ayami.
  3. He was able to get out of the house, even just for the single trip to Chiyoda and back. 
  4. ~~He caught a glimpse of Akaashi in~~



With all things considered, today was an okay day. Not the best he’s had, though he knows that superlatives won’t really cut it for the next few months. It’s all about perspective. ‘Okay’ during a pandemic is the equivalent of a ‘great time’ in a world pre-quarantine. The glass is half-full, or whatever.

Osamu rubs his face with his hands.

Fuck the glass. Throw it to the ground. The world is an oyster being shucked by the most inexperienced hands. With a godforsaken butter knife, of all things.

There are good kinds of exhaustion. When he was six, it was the thrum of his heart after beating Atsumu in a race from the playground to the front of their house. At ten years old, it was the soreness in his shoulders that came with hitting spike after spike at a volleyball clinic. Come 2014, it was coming back home to Hyogo as Haruko champions, gold medals slung around their necks and their legs giving out after five straight days of matches. 

From the day he opened Onigiri Miya’s first branch, the best kind of tiredness became the many, many yesterdays he spent stationed at the countertop, forging shapes out of scorching rice with a care and precision that came to him the way he didn’t have to think about breathing in enough air to stay alive. You don’t think. You just _do._

And he’d be tired beyond the capacities of his imagination, sure. But his customers were happy, thanking him for the meal, praising him in languages he’d never heard outside a video off the Internet. When he had to lift boxes of ingredients into the kitchen every morning, his arms would sometimes feel like they were about to fall off; yet he knew those same ingredients would sustain his customers for the long days ahead of them. Food was energy for the body, healing for the mind, and a home for the soul. 

No matter how much the logistics of running a restaurant drained every last bit of his patience, every face he’d seen, every person he’d met, and every mouth he’d fed kept him grounded on that one spot by the countertop. Every single time.

Osamu had none of that now. He wakes up to the sight of his apartment walls and the marble backsplash of his unit’s kitchen—no stories of heartbreak and triumph underscoring his American jazz selection, no blazers and coats hung over chairs, no imagined trains to anticipate at imagined platforms. He doesn’t want to move. He can’t _._

 _So much for ending up happier,_ says a voice in his head. It’s his own this time.

He flips over on his couch, face buried into the embroidered throw pillow his father made for his apartment. Unlike the sakura trees outside, the ones sewn into the pillow are in full bloom. Pink petals dot the white casing, reminding him of the fallen flowers that stuck to his shoes on the sidewalk right by his old high school’s entrance gate. 

This is the worst fucking oyster in the catch.

The throw pillow turns wet. Osamu takes a quick trip to the bathroom to sprinkle some water into his eyes. He resists the urge to rub them. Snot stains the neckline of his Oliver Barnes jersey. 

So maybe he’s a few degrees away from an okay day. 

Osamu counts his blessings again, without digging too deep into his memories this time:

  1. He’s healthy.
  2. Baa-chan is safe at home. His parents are taking good care of her.
  3. Atsumu’s sourdough turned out ~~great~~ alright. The pictures he posted on Instagram looked decent, at least.
  4. Ayami is doing well. The Amagasaki staff are healthy.
  5. The Shinjuku staff are all at home, preparing orders for the next day.
  6. ~~Akaashi is quite lovely in white.~~



He plops back down on his couch, arm clutching the embroidered throw pillow to his chest. The notifications from the Onigiri Miya account flood his phone screen.

Liked by **miyatsumu** and **2,884 others**

 **onigirimiya** Today’s deliveries! Thank you for choosing Onigiri Miya to keep you company at home. All products are guaranteed sanitized, safe, and #MadeByMiya! 

For delivery in Tokyo & Hyogo only. Check our highlights to order! #StayHome

 **HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL** I SHALL ORDER AGAIN SOON!

 **wakatoshi_1994** @HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL I’m jealous.

 **kageyamatobio** @HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL @wakatoshi_1994 Me too

 **HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL** @wakatoshi_1994 @kageyamatobio THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR LEAVING ME FOR YOUR FOREIGN LEAGUES! 

**shinsuke** Looks good :)

 **goingonaran** Yum!!!!!

 **mikachan0119** Itadakimasu! Got my order~

 **msbyluvr** king that looks so good

 **schweiden20** who’s doing it like them

_Load more comments_

Osamu checks every comment that comes in. The profile is mentioned across several Stories, and the posts it’s tagged in have tripled since yesterday. Atsumu shares the most recent post on his profile and provides a comprehensive guide on how to place an order for delivery. Every post gets added to the twelfth Highlight dedicated to their customers in their profile.

7\. He is not the only person who wants things to go back to normal.

His phone buzzes with a new message, this time from LINE. 

**Akaashi Keiji**

Loved the spicy cucumber. I should have tried it sooner.

7:32 PM

The photo loads seconds after Osamu reads the message: The top corner of the onigiri has been bitten off, revealing the spicy cucumber filling stuffed inside the rice. Osamu spots Akaashi’s laptop screen in the background, a tab for his email inbox open. 

  
  


**Miya Osamu**

branching out are we? haha

7:35 PM

  
  


_Yer shit at flirting._ Atsumu’s voice has returned to its place in Osamu’s psyche. It should start paying rent if it insists on giving him a headache all the time.

  
  


**Akaashi Keiji**

Well, it’s thanks to you for being so generous.

7:35 PM

  
  


_You._ Him. Miya Osamu, 24 years of age, born in Hyogo and currently residing in Tokyo’s Shinjuku ward. _You._ The kanji for ‘ _you’_ comes alive, crawling out of his phone screen and into his apartment. It takes him by his shirt and throws him into the Sea of Japan. He’s never going to resurface. Sorry to his business, sorry to Baa-chan and his parents, sorry to Kita-san and Aran-kun, sorry to Suna, not sorry to Atsumu—

  
  


Onigiri Miya*. Thanks to Onigiri Miya. :)

7:36 PM

Oh.

A boat called S.S. Harsh Reality pulls his body up to the surface with a spare lifeboat. The paramedics on duty lay him out on deck to perform CPR against his will. His throat’s loaded with saltwater, and he can’t tell them to fuck off and leave him to die at the bottom of the sea. 

Business is business. Akaashi Keiji is just a customer, a mere acquaintance-turned-regular-at-his-restaurant. He’s just one of many editors at Weekly Shonen Vai who has a horrendously dysfunctional body clock and affinity for subway metaphors. Akaashi Keiji is shy of being a stranger from high school; it so happens that he is one of the few familiar faces in a prefecture so unlike Osamu’s hometown, and he’s fooled himself into thinking he knows the guy after several nights talking about the places they’d go with the trains they boarded.

  
  


**Miya Osamu**

sorry, had to do something quick

7:43 PM

would you get it again though?

7:44 PM

  
  


Is he reading into this too much? He sees nothing but text messages on a screen. Although, even on the nights Akaashi graced him with his company, he could never untangle the knots the editor tied around his words. It’s like there’s always something he’s keeping away or skirting over that Osamu just barely misses.

Akaashi makes a living out of picking language apart. When he’s doing the talking himself, Osamu can never tell what he means. He’s likely in his apartment in Chiyoda going through emails, and their LINE chatroom’s a small window resized to sit at the bottom of his screen. 

It’s all Osamu is looking at on his phone.

  
  


**Akaashi Keiji**

For sure.

7:58 PM

I’m a fan of everything, though. Glad I ordered more flavors this time around. :)

7:58 PM

  
  


Osamu squeezes the throw pillow. There are no knots in these words. Instead, they twist in his chest. 

Something he’s keeping away. Something he’s skirting over.

* * *

  
  
The news greeted Osamu first thing in the morning, even before his alarm rang. A man in his thirties from Kanagawa had contracted the virus during his stay in Wuhan. He returned to Japan on January 6, went to a hospital for treatment, and was discharged only on January 15 after his fever subsided. The man didn’t go to any crowded places upon landing back home.

Osamu put the pieces together in his head. That patient was stuck in a plane for x number of hours. The virus could spread in a matter of seconds.

The streets of Shinjuku were contained in their own little bubble. Some restaurants kept operations going, with workers crowding around tables and rubbing elbows over beer every night. Shopping districts bustled with the same mass of patrons bumping shoulders in the crowd. Over at the restaurant, Osamu picked up on the news from his own customers, their conversations plagued by the news. 

“Some people say these records don’t even come close to the real thing,” an angry customer in her twenties speculated one Thursday evening. “They’re too relaxed about this. For what? Trying not to scare the kids? We _should_ be scared. Fear could save our asses better than whatever it is they’re trying to pull off.”

“She’s being a little too loud for my own liking,” Akaashi had said bluntly, “but she’s right. This isn’t just something that’ll go away in a few weeks’ time.”

“Are ya startin’ to work from home?” Osamu’s hands were sweaty inside his plastic gloves. His breath fogged up his mouth shield. Talks of closing the restaurant had been looming in their early morning pleasantries for a few weeks, but until the government made a move, he and his team were desperate to keep the show running. Plastic gloves and mouth shields were the last cries for battle before complete surrender.

“We’re talking through the logistics of it,” Akaashi replied. He folded his napkin the same way he always did, though he’d smoothed out the creases that time only to fold it again. The process repeated itself thrice. “The adjustments will be hard, but it’s something I expected. And besides…”

“Yeah?” Osamu quirked up a brow. It could have been the fog in his face shield or the spinning sensation inside his head, but either way, he couldn’t see straight. At the pit of his stomach grew unease at his surroundings. 

The only thing keeping his skin away from the rice were those flimsy plastic gloves. There wasn’t a single rice ball he hadn’t touched. There were up to twenty people dining in at a time. After they finished their meals, they would take a taxi, take the subway, take the bus back home. They would return to a family, to a roommate, to their belongings.

“Besides,” Akaashi continued, dark blue eyes a murky haze behind the glass barrier setting him and Osamu apart, “we’re lucky enough to be working from home. This… this virus is going to hit harder for some of us.”

“You can say it to my face, ya know.” In spite of himself, Osamu had the nerve to laugh. “We’ve been talkin’ about it for a while now. It was only a matter of time anyway.”

“Sorry.”

“What did we say about apologies, ‘Kaashi-kun?”

“Right.” Akaashi thumbed the rim of his teacup. “I didn’t know if it was my place to bring it up.”

“Nah, sorry I snapped at ya.” The news had gotten under his skin. The woman from earlier stepped outside for a smoke. “If I’m being honest with myself…” _I’m scared,_ he wanted to say. _I’m scared I’ll crash and burn if I have to shut this down._

Akaashi knocked on the glass barrier with his knuckles.

“Hey.” 

The sound snapped Osamu out of his reverie. Akaashi offered a tight-lipped smile. 

Nosedive. Free-falling from the edge of a cliff into the turbulent waves that pulled him into the ocean floor.

“Trains?”

It wasn’t fair. One word from Akaashi, and the weight of hundreds of lives were feather-light on Osamu’s shoulders.

“Trains…” Osamu repeated. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m inside the train and I’m drivin’ it. Tons of people inside the cars. It’s rush hour. I don’t know where we’re supposed to go, if we’re going anywhere at all. Hell, I don’t know how to drive the damn thing.”

Akaashi stared into the bottom of his cup, brows furrowed in thought. 

“Hmmm.” He liked to hum aloud. A lot. The sound was oddly reminiscent of lullabies from Osamu’s childhood memories. “Ever thought about how you’re not the only driver out there in the world? That… There are people driving trains with just as many passengers? And none of them know where they’re going with this, either?” He tapped the side of the cup with his fingers at a steady rhythm. “We’re all testing out new tracks.”

Osamu lowered his head, eyes trained on his shoes. “We are.”

“You can always stop the train.” Akaashi finished the remainder of his tea. “You don’t have to man it all by yourself.”

  
  
  


Days passed. The numbers grew. Ayami had phoned him about the situation in Hyogo: The health ministry reported that the number of cases in Osaka and Hyogo combined could build up to 3,374 by early April. Officials had been struggling with tracing person-to-person contact within the prefectures. The virus was reported to be transmitted to more than one person on average. Schools had been closed down. Citizens were restricted from nonessential travel. A few shop owners were closing their stores out of paranoia; some cut down their hours, operating only until 4 PM. The rest didn’t bother. No one was going to punish them for staying open, anyway.

A cruise ship by the name Diamond Princess was stuck at Yokohama Bay after a passenger tested positive for coronavirus. Though the cruise ship was indefinitely quarantined, more than 700 people had been infected. Some passengers were repatriated to their home countries, but the ones who tested positive had been on the same flights as people who had no contact with the virus.

The Tokyo 2020 Olympics were postponed.

Osamu had broken the news to his team on the last Monday of March. The government had been mulling over declaring a state of emergency for weeks, but the indecision had cost over 70 lives. There were 1,866 active cases in Japan. 

Onigiri Miya’s Shinjuku branch would be closed indefinitely for the health and safety of their employees and patrons. The staff would still receive their salaries for the month of March, but Osamu couldn’t fully guarantee them a steady income for the coming months. All of the leftover ingredients would be brought over to his apartment. He promised to come up with contingency plans to keep the business afloat for as long as possible. 

The same lines were repeated over a Zoom call with their counterparts in Amagasaki. The tears in his colleagues’ eyes weren’t lost on him. Halfway through explaining his general plans for the next few months, Osamu’s voice broke.

He ended the call and sent his Shinjuku team home. There he stood at the spot he’d always claimed by the countertop; if he closed his eyes, he could imagine customers filing into the shop, shrugging out of their coats and rubbing their palms together while he set a menu down on their tables. They would ask him for his best-sellers or ask him for the usual, and he would ask them about their studies, their jobs, their families. He would talk about how he used to spend hours standing on a volleyball court instead of the hardwood floors of his restaurant. They would ask if he was related to Miya Atsumu, the national team player, and he would say yes, they were twins. They would laugh and cry and tap their feet along to Sinatra. Pictures would be taken, seconds would be offered, stomachs would be full. Hearts would be warmed.

But he opened his eyes, and all he’d seen was space. It was cold. So, so cold. 

* * *

“Onigiri Miya’s onigiri are delicious. Do you not have a Tokyo branch yet?” 

In front of Osamu’s stall stood a man he recognized as the former setter of Fukurodani Academy. It was a face he faintly remembered, but a presence he could never forget. 

In their final volleyball tournament in high school, Osamu bore no doubt in Atsumu’s goal to take the Haruko trophy home. Such faith wavered when they faced Fukurodani, the second strongest school in Tokyo, in the semifinals. Inarizaki advanced to the finals after a gruelling, full 5-set game, only barely breaking through in the final set with a score of 17-15.

Osamu wondered, then, seeing Akaashi Keiji lining up for onigiri as a spectator, if being surrounded by monsters the former setter had played both with and against sent him spiralling into thoughts he’d buried at the back of his mind—asking himself the questions that plagued him the moment he turned his back on the orange court and threw his towel in. 

Would he have wanted it any other way? Was leaving volleyball behind for the best? 

Was he happy?

Osamu didn’t pry, and simply said, “Thank you. Not yet, but we’re thinking about it.”

He wasn’t. He once thought two years at Tsuji and over a year of running the first Onigiri Miya branch in Amagasaki would give him enough time to chase away the monsters that climbed on his back. 

In the off-season, Tsumu would go back to their hometown, and Osamu would get dragged into renting a nearby sports center for a day. After being out of commission for years, Osamu had worried one afternoon that he would embarrass himself; but his muscles remembered all the wonderful things they used to pull off on the court. 

His arms came together without him having to think twice, and he bumped Atsumu’s serve into the air. A clean, perfect pass. The height of his jumps had changed, but the feeling of floating in the air was just as he’d imagined. He was suspended mid-air for one second, but there was that fleeting view from above the net. In those brief, dissipating moments, Osamu remembered he could fly.

Why did he ever leave the sky?

“I look forward to it then.” Akaashi Keiji’s mouth curved into the shape of a smile. “It’s some of the best onigiri I’ve had.”

Atsumu balled his left hand into a fist. All sound ceased to exist within the arena. 

The beat of Osamu’s heart was erratic. He wondered if it was loud enough for Akaashi to hear it.

  
  
  


how expensive are **apartments in tokyo**

rental space restaurant **shinjuku**

cost of living comparison **hyogo and tokyo**

* * *

A week after both Onigiri Miya branches were shut down, the Prime Minister declared that Tokyo, Hyogo, Osaka, Chiba, Kanagawa, Saitama, and Fukuoka were under a “state of emergency.” On the 16th of April, the state of emergency was expanded throughout the country, right before Golden Week rolled in. Talks of keeping restaurants operational provoked the outrage of citizens online. The government “strongly discouraged” citizens from going outside, but no laws were passed to ensure adherence to quarantine regulations. People were asked to cut down on social contact by 80% (whatever the fuck that number meant, Osamu couldn’t wrap his head around it). Governors took it upon themselves to shut businesses down within their prefectures to mitigate the risk of infection. If people were absolutely required to meet, a distance of six feet must be maintained at all times.

The first two weeks weren’t so bad. He’d bombarded his Instagram followers with pictures of his meals: Kimchi fried rice with a fried egg on top for breakfast, mushroom toast on sourdough for lunch, and grilled salmon with a side salad for dinner. In between, he’d keep his hands busy and make himself onigiri. His supplies were left at the restaurant, and so all he had were his rice cooker, leftover umeboshi, and his two hands. 

His parents and Baa-chan called him after news of the state of emergency broke out. He and Ayami had to work for long, taxing nights with their accountants, with words like _cash flow_ and _income statement_ and _accounting cycle_ parading around his head at 2 AM. 

Atsumu had spiralled into a baking craze and gave away loaves of banana bread to their friends. He hadn’t called Osamu yet. He never brought up the Olympics during their family calls, nor did he join the wave of athletes expressing their dismay over the state of the world. His last Instagram post was back when he’d first received his jersey for Ryujin Nippon. Together with Osamu, he held up the shirt, showing off the _MIYA_ printed on top of the number 11. Sometimes he would complain about working out indoors or missing serving drills, but that was the farthest he would go when talking about volleyball. Not once did he mention Onigiri Miya, either. 

Messages piled up in Osamu’s inbox. He set constant reminders for himself to get to them a few minutes later. 

The minutes bled into hours, and hours snowballed into days. He started another series on Netflix. He’d become a kilogram heavier on the weighing scale. Still, the messages were unopened.

The last post on the restaurant’s profile was uploaded on March 31. It was a picture Osamu had taken before he had locked the doors to the Shinjuku restaurant. The photo showed chairs propped up on the tables, hanging upside down. The prep stations by the counter had been cleared of all ingredients and utensils. The only people inside the store were the faces frozen in picture frames hung up on the restaurant walls: his Inarizaki teammates out in front of the store; the MSBY Black Jackals celebrating their victory as the top Division 1 team from last season; Udai Tenma with Osamu, offering him a signed volume of Meteo Attack; Akaashi, in his usual corner of the restaurant, hunched over his tablet; a printed version of Atsumu’s most recent picture on Instagram.

Liked by **akaashi_keiji** and **78,992 others**

 **onigirimiya** It is with a heavy heart that we announce the temporary closing of Onigiri Miya’s Shinjuku and Amagasaki branches. Remember to #StayHome and be healthy. 

We’ll see you all again soon! 

**bokutobeam920** NOOOOOOOOOO

 **ninjashoyo** WHAT :(

 **akaaaaaaaagi** I’m so sad

 **shinsuke** Very sorry to hear this.

 **msbyluvr** wtf i hate it here im disbanding coronavirus

 **schweiden20** fuck covid19 all my homies hate covid19

 **goingonaran** Wishing you all the best.

 **akaashi_keiji** I’ll miss you, Onigiri Miya. Till next time.

_Load more comments_

To say self-isolation had been rough on Osamu was an understatement. Spending time with himself had him doing things he’d never imagined being capable of. He scrubbed down his entire apartment twice a day. He poured the (non-fat, who _was_ he) milk in first before the granola. He subbed out white rice for quinoa and thought he’d do it again the next day.

Osamu looked through the comments again. His thumb hovered over the word _Onigiri_ in Akaashi’s comment, covering it from his view.

_‘I’ll miss you, Miya. Till next time.’_

“Tch.”

_Idiot._

He lifted his thumb from the screen. If he’d kept his thumb in place any longer, the comment would have seared itself into his memories with one word missing.

  
  


**akaashi_keiji** I’ll miss you, Onigiri Miya. Till next time.

 **onigirimiya** @akaashi_keiji We’ll miss you too! Stay healthy.

* * *

“Yer bein’ a scrub right now, Samu.”

Atsumu hijacked Osamu into taking a video call at 6 in the morning, nearly after a month of exclusively texting and avoiding any mentions of their compromised jobs. Osamu had barely managed to sit up in his bed when his phone flashed with his brother’s face. 

The days had been unkind to both of them: Osamu hadn’t washed his hair for three days, and the stubble on his chin was becoming more and more of a nuisance than a grooming choice. His eyes were puffy from the nights he spent tossing and turning in his bed, gripping onto Vabo-chan with the desperation of a child for protection from the monsters under his bed.

Atsumu was wearing a tacky Rio souvenir shirt. He had run out of hair products, and his impeccably styled hair had been pulled back with an eerily familiar Totoro headband.

“That’s my headband, ya dipshit,” Osamu spat back, back still flat on his mattress and Vabo-chan cradled in his arm. “Spent months looking for that.”

“Well come and take it back yerself.”

“Yer insufferable.”

“And yer a scrub.”

Something had shifted within Osamu. On any other day, their back-and-forth bickering would carry on for fifteen more minutes until Atsumu got distracted by something else. Osamu would talk about the Shinjuku branch and its customers. His brother would tell him about Ryujin Nippon’s antics or a new play he wanted to test out.

But the world had other plans for them, and they were back to square one, staring at each other through their screens. Osamu, but blond. Atsumu, with his natural hair color. The same face, the same body, the same Vabo-chan in their arms. In an apartment complex in Osaka, Atsumu couldn’t peel himself off of his bed. Inside Osamu’s unit, hundreds of kilometers away, he felt the same.

On the other side of the line, Atsumu sighed. “Yer life sucks.”

“Thanks, genius.” Osamu rolled his eyes. “Totally didn’t know that.”

“Let me finish,” Atsumu hissed, and Osamu could feel the venom all the way from the Kansai region. “I said yer life sucks. But so does mine, okay?”

“Are ya tryin’ to say ya have it harder than me?”

“I’m bein’ _nice_ for once, Samu!” Exasperated, Atsumu took the Totoro headband off and carded his fingers through his hair. His roots were beginning to grow. “They postponed the Olympics and the JVA cancelled all the games this year. No tournaments, no practice, _nothing._ Ya think I wanna brag about bein’ jobless?”

Osamu blinked once, twice, clutch weakening on Vabo-chan. 

“I’m useless off the court. Onigiri Miya’s closed.” Atsumu tore his gaze away from the screen. “And Baa-chan isn’t gettin’ any younger. ‘Kaa-chan and ‘Tou-chan, too. All I’m doin’ is baking bread in this goddamn apartment while the world goes to shit. But I gotta keep tryin’, right? Taking it day by day.” 

The creases in Atsumu’s forehead smoothed out. His hardlined stare turned soft. 

“I hafta keep going. ‘Cuz I said I was gonna be happier than you.”

Osamu remembered the fight they had at the gym all those years ago. He’d been in denial about quitting volleyball for the longest time until Atsumu was invited to the U-19 All-Japan Youth Camp. He knew, then, that his hands weren’t made for sport the way Atsumu’s fingers could easily carry out an overhand pass from almost any point on the court. 

But Osamu’s hands had a gift of their own. They kneaded, they sliced, they peeled, they molded. They tuned all the flavors of a dish until they came together in perfect harmony. They gave thanks to the earth for the life it breathed into them, and they poured that life into bowls and plates. 

Atsumu could have the sky. Osamu didn’t have to fly.

“Like I’d letcha get ahead of me that easily.”

  
  
  


(“So. ‘We’ll miss you too!’, huh.”

“Shaddap.”

“Betcha soooo wanted ‘Kaashi-kun to message ya.”

“I hope you forget to feed your sourdough starter.”

“Samu, yer on thin fucking ice.”)

  
  
  


Liked by **akaashi_keiji** and **100,142 others**

 **onigirimiya** Onigiri Miya is back in business! We are opening deliveries in Tokyo and Hyogo. All our products are guaranteed to be safe, fresh, and most importantly, #MadeByMiya! 

For more information, check out our highlights! #StayHome

 **HOSHIUMIKORAIOFFICIAL** OMG YOU’RE BACK

 **goingonaran** WELCOME BACK!

 **bokutobeam920** SO SAD I’M IN OSAKA :(

 **miyatsumu** @bokutobeam920 i can just make u some bokkun

 **msbyluvr** YEEEEEEEEEEES

 **schweiden20** we absolutely LOVE TO SEE IT

_Load more comments_

Osamu watched their delivery announcement receive 100,000 likes overnight. The comments became tedious to keep track of, but there were a handful of profile pictures and usernames he’d recognized as past customers from the Shinjuku and Amagasaki branches. The order form for the following week reached the quota in a day. He was back in his kitchen with salt in his hands and his lower back aching from standing the entire day. 

If he closed his eyes, even for a few seconds, the animated chatter of his patrons would fill up all the empty spaces of silence inside his apartment. Glasses clinked, meals were shared, and memories were stored, all in the quaint space they shared in the bustling streets of Shinjuku. All in a ball of rice wrapped with nori. 

  
  


**Akaashi Keiji**

Glad you’re back. :)

11:53 PM

**Miya Osamu**

you mean the restaurant? me too :D

11:54 PM

**Akaashi Keiji**

No, I meant you.

11:55 PM

Train’s up and running again. :)

11:58 PM

**Miya Osamu**

just trying new things, haha

11:59 PM

**Akaashi Keiji**

Aren’t we all?

11:59 PM

* * *

When Osamu had first noticed the pattern in Akaashi’s orders (the number varied, but it was always umeboshi), he sensed that the editor found comfort in the familiar, rather than facing the possible rewards that required taking risks. 

Some customers are inevitably the same; an entire culinary sub-genre existed in an attempt to replicate the foods that favored comfort and tradition over modern, experimental twists. Umeboshi is a staple side dish in Japanese households. Osamu associates its flavor with meals prepared by his mother and Baa-chan at home. The entrée changed three times throughout the day, but there was always that salty tang that he came back to between bites of fish or meat. He chases after the taste whenever the size Tokyo feels too big for his mind to comprehend.

It’s a pleasant surprise to Osamu, then, to find Akaashi ordering new flavors every week. The first order he’d placed was his usual, but in the same week, he ordered the sampler box of ten pieces, with one of every flavor. The following week, he started pairing up different flavors together: Two pieces of tamago with tarako, the grilled mentaiko with kombu, the sukiyaki with sesame, the miso with salmon. Last week’s order was two pieces of umeboshi, two pieces tarako, one order for tamago, and the spicy cucumber Osamu had thrown in for free.

This week’s delivery is another assorted box of flavors: One piece each of sukiyaki, salmon, tamago, and spicy cucumber. And just like the stunt he pulled with the last delivery, Osamu added an extra piece of a new flavor he’d been testing in his kitchen. He figured if Akaashi became a fan of the spicy cucumber flavor, surely he could tolerate kimchi fried rice. 

Osamu peaks into the paper bag. On top of the box rests a note he included at the last minute before he left his apartment:

_Testing a new flavor out. Let me know what you think. - Osamu_

There comes a visceral need to hit his head against the elevator, but he decides against it. For health and safety reasons, he justifies. He’ll do the head banging in his shower when he gets back.

_Ring doorbell and leave package immediately. - Akaashi Keiji_

The sign says the same thing as before, but the paper appears to have been torn from a lined yellow pad. The handwriting is more frantic this time, and if Osamu didn’t have the name _Akaashi Keiji_ running in his mind all these months, he wouldn’t have made it out as it is on the paper.

He sets the paper bag down on the floor and rings the doorbell. He picks up on the sound of footsteps shuffling, still a bit far from the door. 

Osamu takes a step back. The footsteps approach the _genkan._ It’s time for him to leave.

There are a throng of consequences awaiting him if he lingers any longer in front of Unit 524 and actually sees Akaashi in the flesh. He steps one foot out to the side. 

Maybe if things had been different, if he’d moved at a pace the slightest bit faster, there would have been chances for him to get to know Akaashi beyond conversations around closing time and his food preferences. Akaashi would talk to him about something else other than work or the daily news, the same way Osamu would put the gossip to rest—no more eavesdropping on other customers, no more names from mutual friends, no more metaphorical trains decorating their speech. He wants to talk about the simplest things in the simplest terms without the niceties and tiptoes involved.

There are no puzzles to solve, no cases to crack. Akaashi is Akaashi, and he means what he says. There is nothing more to the words burned into the forefront of Osamu’s mind when he can’t sleep at night. Any hidden meaning he’d been trying to decipher from all these codes were his own self-indulgent wishes. All he has are glimpses of him from the other end of this hall. Terse conversations. Stretches of minutes between messages. A glass divider at the countertop.

They can’t even talk to each other without bringing up those godforsaken trains.

Osamu turns and walks away from the apartment. He pushes himself forward, but his body moves on its own accord and his feet are dreadfully sluggish on the way back to the elevator. 

Before he can make the turn heading to the elevator, the door to Unit 524 swings open.

He freezes. The paper bag is lifted from the floor. The sticker comes undone. Package is unsealed. A prolonged hush tells Osamu that Akaashi is reading the note stuck to the box.

Akaashi hums to a tune Osamu recognizes as the Chet Baker song at the end of his jazz playlist—the one that ends right as Haru-chan flips the sign on the Onigiri Miya doors from _open_ to _closed._

A grain of rice on his cheek. A switch in lines. Door chimes. Nosediving into an ocean that takes, and takes, and takes.

“Osamu?”

 _Walk._ Staying still makes him look deliberately rude. Turning around would confirm Akaashi’s suspicions. Akaashi will talk and ask him how he’s been. Mention a train getting back on the tracks. 

_Walk._ Akaashi’s never called him that before. He imagines the shape of Akaashi’s mouth as Osamu’s name pulls at it. _O-sa-mu._

“Hey, ‘Kaashi-kun.” 

Muscle memory, combined with that _thing_ that twisted inside his chest he now recognizes as the early simmer of a feeling that can boil over if he doesn’t pay close attention, leads him to his demise.

Osamu stands roughly six feet away from Akaashi. The editor sports his old Fukurodani jersey, the one he used in their junior year of high school, and owl-print shorts. The top half of his hair is tied backwards, but strands of it fall in front of his glasses. He carries the Onigiri Miya bag in his arms. Dark blue eyes shift their focus from the package to Osamu.

“Didn’t know you were the one doing deliveries.” Akaashi grins, and Osamu knows it’s already a bigger one than those lousy tight-lipped smiles he offers to drunk strangers near his seat back at the restaurant. “Thank you for the free sample, by the way. I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Of course.” Osamu plants one foot behind the other. “You’ve been tryin’ out the other flavors.”

Akaashi tilts his head. “I wanted to try something new.”

“Like the hair?”

Osamu wonders if Akaashi’s neighbors are home. They have to be. Having a conversation with this wide a gap between two people strains the throat. He chalks it up to paranoia. 

The sun is setting. It could be the light playing tricks with his eyes. Akaashi’s cheeks mirror the color of the sky.

“The hair wasn’t intentional.” Half of Akaashi’s body is already inside his apartment. “Though I suppose a lot of things haven’t gone as planned these past few months.”

“Yeah.” Osamu stuffs his hands inside his pockets, latex gloves suffocating his skin. Akaashi _had_ to be pushing his buttons on purpose right now. “A lotta things I wanted to do.”

“But we’ll find ways, won’t we? That’s just how humans work.”

Akaashi had him at the ‘we.’ He did.

Osamu is reminded that there are things too big for the world to accommodate. Right now, in a time when people live their lives in isolation, the world has shrunk into a space within four corners of a home. To come closer, to touch, to be near—the earth would cave in on itself. 

“We will,” he agrees. He tips off his hat to Akaashi. “Hope ya like the onigiri.”

“I know I will.” Akaashi smiles down at the box inside the paper bag. “ _Otsukare._ ”

“ _Otsukare._ ” Osamu’s nails threaten to tear at latex. His other foot takes a step backward.

“I-It’s nice to see you again,” Akaashi adds, fingers fidgeting with the bottom seams of the bag.

“Same here,” Osamu permits himself to admit. 

This is the most he’s talked to Akaashi in weeks. There are no hints scattered across pictures, comments, nor messages. 

He sees, now, what lies beyond his screen: A shade of blue he has never seen anywhere else. Cheeks dusted in light pink. Hands clutching onto a paper bag as the color drains from their knuckles. Beads of sweat lining his forehead. 

“I’ve been wanting to see you again.”

Osamu’s hands relax at his sides. His shoulders ease. 

No trains, no metaphors, no knots to untangle in these words. 

Akaashi unravels.

That thing in Osamu’s chest boils over.

“I’ve felt the same for a while, now.”

  
  
  


It's the beginning of June. Akaashi Keiji is six feet apart from Osamu. Regards him with a tenderness that thaws a city after months of cruel, howling winds.

Summer stands by the doorstep. 

He’s warm.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. special thanks to bao and janny for some of the songs in the playlist! another special to thanks my twitter mutuals who have been so supportive these past few days. been anxious about posting my first hq fic but your words mean a lot to me and got me through this thing til the end. mwah  
> 2\. browsed through A Lot of articles for covid-19 developments but here are the ones that got my brain worms moving: [x](https://www.timeout.com/tokyo/things-to-do/live-updates-the-covid-19-coronavirus-situation-in-tokyo-and-japan-right-now), [x](https://www.businessinsider.com/diamond-princess-cruise-passengers-details-photos-from-quarantine-evacuation-2020-2#on-january-20-fehrenbacher-and-christoph-boarded-the-diamond-princess-in-yokohama-japan-for-a-vacation-that-would-turn-into-a-nightmare-1), [x](https://www.forbes.com/sites/joelrush/2020/04/29/crowdfunding-take-out-among-ways-small-restaurant-and-bar-owners-in-japan-are-coping-with-coronavirus-measures/#4c4d4ceb7148)
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> twitter [@msbyuu](https://twitter.com/msbyuu)


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